Sight
by Gelado Pocket-mouse
Summary: AU- Eragon is a simple farm boy who has been blind his entire life. Who would think he, of all people, would be destined to be the first dragon rider since the fall? Warning- short chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: As usual. It's called FANfiction, (one of my favorite sayings), which is, alas, the reason it all looks like crap before Paolini.**

**Chapter One**

Eragon hoped against hope they weren't doing it again. Slim chance. He had little to no way of knowing if they were without asking Roran, but he knew they did it often enough; there was really nothing to ask. It wasn't the staring that was a problem. If their looks had been due to some other cause, say if he were a misfit amongst the other villagers, that would have been fine by him. Eragon knew better. They stared at him in pity, a fact that was positively loathsome to him.

Being the only blind boy living in Carvahall,(or more precisely, miles outside of Carvahall), Eragon was used to this, though he favored it no more that the first time Roran had informed him of their actions.

Apparently having noticed Eragon's glum expression, Roran exclaimed heartily,"Ah, cheer up! You'll be the very last thing on their minds by the time the traders are here." Eragon smiled in acknowledgment. His words rung true, as several hours later, Garrow presented them with coins and shoed them off to do what they pleased, while he exchanged the fruits of the past year's labor for much needed supplies, in the midst of the festivities. Both boys delighted in combing the village with other youths, admiring various bobbles and sweets displayed by the traders selling their wares, listening to hunter's tales in the Seven Sheaves, and later, the yarns of the village storytellers and bards. Shivers ran the length of Eragon's spine as the decrepit village storyteller, Brom, told the tale of Eragon's namesake, of the Dragon Riders. He told it every year, yet it never failed to rent excitement in the listeners, hearing things from a man the king would have executed long ago, had he knowledge of his tellings of the story. After the annual festivities had ended, Garrow, Roran, and Eragon trekked home in the embers of the dying fires they had previously sat around.


	2. Chapter 2

** Chapter Two**

Pulling a rough tunic over his chest and lacing up his awkward boots, Eragon trotting down the stairs. Being the first to wake, Eragon lazed on the porch, letting the sun's rays warm his face before having to get to work. Leaning against the front of the house, Eragon pleasured in the peaceful solitude. He would have to start on his chores soon enough, but at the moment things were perfect: a warm, pleasant day, pleasurable to the senses, the sweet taste of the slight breeze whispering through the leaves, birds chiding sociably to one another. And yet, the more Eragon reveled, the more fractured things seemed to become, until he knew something was off, but what it was, he could not say.

Inhaling, things became clearer. It was slight, almost unnoticeable, but as it were, Eragon had come to rely on smell and hearing because of his lack of sight, and Eragon _did_ notice. A slightly sharp, bitter scent. The smell of something charred and burnt. Curiosity aroused, Eragon strode forward. He knew his way around the farm, after growing up there, but once he realized the scent came from somewhere beyond the farm, Eragon grew nervous, and his pace slowed, gingerly advancing. He knew what lay beyond. He'd never delved into the Spine, and not many could say they had. After news that Galbatorix had lost half his army in the forest, none ventured very far in. Casting these thoughts aside, Eragon continued into the Spine, and soon discovered he did not have to travel far; he had barely dented the wild foliage of the Spine before reaching the source and coming to a halt.

_A fire?_ was Eragon's first thought, but after further investigation, he decided against the idea. Carefully tracing his hands over the area where burnt foliage began, still heated, Eragon took note of the nature of the spot. Surrounding the burnt area was untouched ground, creating an isolated spot of damage on the forest floor. A fire would have burned from somewhere, Eragon deduced.

Striving into the center for the first time, Eragon continued to feel along the rough, charred ground, until his right hand darted up in surprise at having felt something new. Carefully edging his hand back down, it rested on a small spot, smooth and cool to the touch. Eragon realized most of the object was covered in more charred plant remains, and pushed the debris off, giving his hand an unobstructed "view" of the object. It's glass-like surface was smooth and uninterrupted, cool to the touch, and yet his arm surged with warmth as he touched it. Picking it up, he realized it was something of a stone, and a rather large one at that. Though he marveled at it because all other stones he had felt were rough and uneven, very unlike what he now held. Eragon would think it odd only later that he never considered leaving it behind. He didn't make a conscious decision, because there wasn't one to be made. There was no question.

Eragon did consider wether to show the stone to his uncle and cousin. He felt strangely protective of the stone. _But I have to show them! _Eragon thought. _What good is someone who can't trust their own family?_


	3. Chapter 3

** Chapter Three**

Roran wasn't to curious as to his cousin's whereabouts. He had supposed he had gone down to tend to the livestock. Blind or not, he still had work to do like the rest of them. Currently, he was at the table, crunching on a cooling biscuit, and was surprised to hear a "Roran?" from the opposite side of the front entrance. "Can you… erm - open the door?" This only raised further questions in Roran's mind. _Why can't Eragon open it himself?_ Nevertheless, he stalked to the door and unlatched it. Eragon pushed himself in, but Roran's gaze was centered on what he was lugging. A polished, brilliant blue stone.

"Where did you get that?" Roran asked incredulously.

Setting the stone down, Eragon replied simply, "I'll show you," and in doing so, grasped Roran's hand and steered him outside.

Roran found the prospect of being lead by Eragon a bit ironic, nevertheless he followed, until he realized where they were going. "In the Spine? When I asked where that stone came from, an exact location was a bit unnecessary!" Roran said, his voice dripping with sarcasm by the end.

Eragon sighed. "Can't you smell it?"

_What?_ was Roran's first thought, but he realized he could smell something burnt. He looked up, expecting to see smoke, but oddly enough, there was an acute lack of it. The day seemed to be especially clear. Roran let himself be guided further, until he stared in bewilderment at a circle of blackened undergrowth on the floor of the spine. This was certainly not the mark of a fire.

"In answer to you question, I found it here."

Bemused, Roran paced the perimeter of the spot, but gleaned no information, and there appeared to be no more unusually large, colorful gems. Eragon had been right. It wasn't far into the forest at all. The house was still visible, and in seeing it, Roran was jolted out of his examination. Both boys raced back to the house, attempting to get back before Garrow awoke. No such luck. Roran came in to find Garrow clutching the stone in awe, Eragon towing behind him. Most likely expecting awed exclamations from his son as well, Garrow looked over noticing the lack thereof. Roran, knowing not what to say in explanation, prodded his cousin forward. "Eragon found it." Roran said blandly. Garrow, turning to Eragon said, "Care to elaborate?"

Roran inched closer, not having heard a full explanation either.

"It was in the Spine," Eragon began, and Garrow's eyes widened slightly in alarm. Eragon proceeded to explain how he had smelled something burning from the porch, found the source, and led Roran to it. After seeing the area himself, Garrow said to Eragon, "Keep it. It's most certainly valuable." Without a word Eragon took the stone to his room and set in underneath his pillow.


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter Four**

_It's most certainly valuable._ Eragon cringed at the words, a feeling of protectiveness toward the stone coming over him again. He remembered the tingling warmth that spread up his arm when he first touched the stone. He absent mildly stroke it, tracing his finger tips over its smooth surface. Eragon recalled the circumstances under which the stone had been found. What had caused the nest of burnt foliage surrounding the stone? The three had confirmed a simple forest fire had not been the cause. The only place harmed had been that specific spot. No tree's had been damaged. As to the stone itself, it couldn't have been natural. Someone had to have shaped it; its smooth, flawless, glass-like surface couldn't be natural results. There was certainly an unknown factor here.

Despite what it would mean in matter of coin for the family, Eragon clung to the hope that Garrow would find no buyer. He was baffled as to why he felt like this. _What am I thinking? What would I do with an unusually large gemstone? If we can't sell it, what good will it be around the house? _Eragon's logical side wanted Garrow to succeed in selling the gem. But a tiny part, a protective part of him, wanted to clutch the stone to his chest. Eragon shook his head to clear it of muddled thoughts. As he set the stone onto his bed, he gasped. Suddenly overwhelming him was a feeling of disappointment at the action. Eragon couldn't say how, but he instinctively knew the feeling wasn't his own, yet he felt it. He was tempted to cradle the stone; he felt a powerful nudge from someone to do so. Casting the push aside, Eragon set the stone under his pillow in one, firm movement, all the while wondering at the misplaced emotions and nudges.

"Eragon?" the voice of an uneasy Garrow drifted to the boy's ear. As Eragon emerged from his bedroom, Garrow told him, "There are some people here looking for a blue stone." Garrow sounded a bit desperate, and Eragon realized the stone he'd come upon must have been "blue". This immediately alerted Eragon's protective side, and he yearned for the possibility that Garrow hadn't informed the strangers that the item they sought was in his possession.

"Have you sssseen our sssstone?" a new voice hissed, that of one of the strangers. Eragon knew Garrow would be silently pleading with his nephew to give up the stone without a struggle. But at the stranger's first words, Eragon knew he would never trust them with the stone. _I'm sorry, Father. _

"I'm sorry to say that I haven't beheld anything of the sort," Eragon said, as dignified as possible. He felt Garrow jerk in surprise at his words, but he remained silent. _Though, _mused Eragon bitterly, _His demeanor will give me away even if he says nothing throughout the rest of this entire ordeal. _Changing tact so as to hopefully avoid suspicion on the subject, at least momentarily, Eragon asked, "How many of you are here?"

There was a slight confused pause from the strangers. "Can't count, boy?" one stranger asked.

Roran, who hadn't said anything as of yet, replied sarcastically,"How can he count what he can't see?"

"Blind," Eragon smirked, waving a hand in front of his eyes with no results, as if in confirmation, though inwardly he was nervous, mind still on the stone, and he could tell the strangers' minds were too.

Seeming to loose interest by his,(or her, Eragon wasn't sure with their harsh, hissing voices), tone, a stranger replied, "Two."

"Where was your stone last known to be?" Eragon asked, as casually as he was able.

"It is of no consequence," a stranger hissed, "we know it's here." His tone had grown suspicious by the end. Eragon wasn't aware if the stranger was referring to Carvahall or the Spine and surrounding area, or in the house.

"Aye, it is most unfortunate such a thing is lost. We will be sure to alert you if we are to find what you are looking for," Eragon said smoothly, but he was panicking. He needed this conversation to end soon, lest Garrow or Roran let the cat out of the bag. Eragon was surprised they hadn't yet, they couldn't sense his urge to protect the stone, yet he was grateful nonetheless.

"Well, if that's all you'll be needing…" Garrow trailed off nervously. Eragon heard the strangers grumbling before stocking unceremoniously out of the house, after which Eragon sighed in relief. After several minutes, when they were sure the strangers were out of earshot, Roran questioned, "Why didn't you tell them? They looked dangerous."

"I don't believe they were human," Garrow stated gruffly, to which Eragon stiffened in alarm.

"What are you talking about?" Eragon asked.

It was Roran who answered. "They wore cloaks, and we couldn't actually see their faces. But they have strangely shaped bodies. Bumps where a human wouldn't have them, humpbacks too."

Eragon shrugged helplessly. "I can't let them have it."

"Why not?" Garrow and Roran asked simultaneously.

Eragon didn't have an answer. "I… can't." He hoped the others would see his attachment to the stone as something he wanted to sell, and nothing more.

The others were not satisfied with this answer, but he left it at that.

Garrow sighed. "I have a feeling we're going to regret that."


	5. Chapter 5

** Chapter Five**

By an unspoken agreement, the exchange with the strangers was left unspoken in the following weeks, though not forgotten. It still worried Eragon in thinking about it, as he was sure it did Garrow and Roran. He worked all the harder to distract himself.

Several weeks after the encounter, Roran returned with news from a day at Carvahall, Eragon having stayed home, (he still loathed their sympathy).

"I've been offered a job as an apprentice at the mill in Therinsford," Roran stated bluntly at the dinner table that night. Eragon had been told earlier, and Roran had expressed his worries of Garrow's reaction. Eragon new Roran would chiefly take the job to earn money for a possible life with Katrina, a village woman he fancied.

Garrow simply nodded his acknowledgment. "When will you be leaving?"

Roran was astonished. "You'll let me go?"

"Why would I not? My son won't always be living in my house, now will he? You'll need a farm of your own if you're ever to have a wife beside you," Garrow responded, and Eragon knew Roran was blushing by the end.

"Well then, I suppose I should leave as soon as possible. How does two days time sound?"

So it was that two days later, Roran had packed his belongings and was ready to make the trek to Therinsford.

At the door, Roran smiled sheepishly at his father and cousin, eager to be on his way.

"Take my blessing with you, my son," Garrow said, and Roran saw Eragon's slight jealousy. With the final goodbyes said, Roran took of into the southwest, Garrow watching him until he was no more than a dot on the horizon. Eragon turned away from the door, and his thoughts turned to himself. Roran was already courting a woman, but Eragon didn't feel as if he'd ever be able to do so himself. It was true, Roran _was_ two years older than himself, but Eragon had trouble picturing himself with anyone, wether now or two years more. The villagers still pitied him. _No one would take me for a husband,_ Eragon reminisced bitterly. _They would think me useless. _At this Eragon sighed. Even if plenty woman had been available, Eragon wasn't sure he wanted to be wed so soon. Although he despised when others thought him young and incompetent, he didn't feel like a man, and he was having trouble admitting this to himself.

Eragon imagined Roran would be gone for at least a year, and realized for the first time that his Uncle would be his only company until then. He realized that for the moment, what he needed was someone to confer to. He had always longed to tussle with the other boys of the village, but the one time he had approached, they had turned him away without a second thought. Roran had been his only friend, he had always been there since Eragon's birth, but now he left, and he felt strangely betrayed. _What am I thinking? I should be happy for him._ Eragon new that even if Roran returned from Therinsford within the year, he would soon move away and build his own home. Grimly, Eragon slouched on his rough mattress and grasped the cool stone. A smile broke across his face as he felt strangely complete. Eragon pondered not why this was, for he had no idea in the slightest; only that he was content with the stone in his arms.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Eragon was not aware of the transition from sleep to reality, but eventually, he was fully awake, laying in bed, eye's wide open and owl-like.

_"They know something,"_ came a harsh hiss. _"They're not nearly as oblivious as they claim." _Eragon jerked in surprise, recognizing the voices of the two strangers that wanted his stone outside the walls of the house. A horrible feeling of foreboding hit Eragon. _Murderers! Egg-breakers! _He didn't even question the voice in his head, even though some part of him knew it was not his own. Eragon shot up, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, as if the walls of the house would lean in and crush the occupants. The house he had been raised in since birth, a familiar warm comfort, was now dark and imposing. All his instincts screamed at him to bolt; he felt as tense as a cornered wolf. Those strangers, those _creatures_ were planning something.

Clutching the stone, Eragon stumbled into the hallway outside his own room as quietly as possible, and turned to his uncle's, even though he desperately wanted to get out of the house himself, he couldn't leave his Uncle behind.

** "**Uncle," Eragon hissed through the darkness, ever present to him. He shook Garrow's shoulder, to which the man slowly awoke. "What is it, my boy?" he asked, voice muddled from sleep.

"Hush, the strangers are back. We have to get out." Eragon felt his Uncle stiffen.

"How dare those wretches come back here? Can they not leave us be?" his words were angry, though fear was evident as well.

"We have to get out!" Eragon repeated desperately, seeing the foolishness of staying in the house. He so badly wanted to shoot out the door to safety. Still, he couldn't leave Garrow…

"Eragon," Garrow said, "just give them the blasted stone! I know you were hoping to sell it, but that's not a choice now, go on, give it to them!"

"I can't! It's mine. It… needs me."

Garrow stared at his nephew dumbfounded, though Eragon was oblivious to his actions.

"We have to leave! Uncle - please! We can't stay here!" Eragon said, in hysterics now. The urge to simply leave his uncle and flee to safety was overpowering, he was having trouble stifling it; he found himself inching towards the door.

Suddenly, he straitened up, in absolute horror for what he found lingering in his nostrils and burning his throat was smoke.

"They're razing it! Father they're burning the house!"

Even if it hadn't been for the fire, Garrow would have left then, one way or the other, at his nephews addressing him as 'Father', and he realized how frantic Eragon was.

Grasping Garrow's arm, Eragon darted out of Garrow's bedroom door, stumbling on the floor in his haste. He all but flew down the stairs three at a time, Garrow half running, half dragging behind him, creating a number of thumps in quick succession as they did so.

The smoke was heavy now, burning Eragon's eyes and stinging his throat. He could have sworn he heard the strangers snickering outside of the house. Garrow and Eragon burst out of the back door of the flaming house, Eragon kept running, even when he knew not what was ahead, with the stone clutched to his chest, underneath his tunic. He came to an abrupt halt after a moment, and it was only then he realized Garrow's hand was not in his.

"Garrow?" Eragon called in panic. He was quickly answered with an "Eragon!" Time slowed as a sound came to his ears he had hoped never would: the intake of breath, the yelp of a loved one, of Garrow being impaled.

"Garrow!" Eragon cried, heart filled with dread. He knew those wretched strangers had done it, and were somewhere near by. Eragon attempted to go back, but was stopped when a screech curdled his blood.

_"Where is it?"_ the voice sounded next to his right ear. Eragon knew he could't go back for his uncle.

"Garrow!" he repeated, and heard a hoarse, pained voice, something he would have never believed as belonging to his uncle, answer.

"Eragon, you have to leave me here, find safety!"

"Uncle I can't…" Eragon could feel the hot, salty liquid make tracks down his face as he made the hardest decision he'd ever made. He turned away.

"And Eragon?" the voice was merely above a whisper, but Eragon's sensitive ears caught it. "Know that I have always thought of you, and will always think of you as my own son."

The tears came down all the harder.

"And I have always thought of you as my father," Eragon said in a cracked voice, turning away for the final time and pelting away in an attempt to evade the creatures, off into what he knew not, but away from everything he knew.

**I thought it was kind of weak plotting that the 'strangers',(come on, you know they're the Ra'zac), didn't just kill him too since they were essentially right there. I kind of doubt he could outrun them, but I'm planning to make him lose them in the Spine.**


	7. Chapter 7

Assumptions. All of them. Things that he had accepted, taken as a given. They were devious things indeed, he learned, for they fit into the rules of life like puzzle pieces that could go nowhere else, when indeed they did not actually belong there at all. The danger of them - that he would accept them without question, _blindly_, when the fact of the matter was that his mind had completely made them up. Jumps to conclusions, one might say, where he assessed a matter and came to the conclusion that he had a knowledgable understanding of it, when genuinely, the 'understanding' was an assumption.

Eragon had thought it would have been safe to claim he understood at least some things, not a particular 'blue' stone, not the pair of hissing strangers, nor the drives for their actions - he had been but a farm boy, and that he had known. And as a farm boy would it not have been safe to _assume_ he understood the farm? The scythe and the cows? Now, he could see it was not safe to assume anything.

Before, he had _assumed_ himself to be familiar with animals. Maybe not a bear, per say, but he'd grown up with livestock all his life. And there was an unmistakable change the moment they laid eyes on a knife on butchering day. The obvious things - the way a cow would rear and buck before her slaughter. And more subtle, the change in the taste of the air, the unknown force that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. However one read the signs, it all added up to one thing. A living being heading to death.

Any living thing would strive to any means necessary to preserve it's life, for obvious reasons. Life was the ultimate goal and without it - there was nothing. What else would one do in life than sustain it? It was real while it lasted. That was why there was a butchering day. Others' lives ended so Garrow's, Roran's and Eragon's could go on.

Eragon had witnessed many butcherings in fifteen years, and he was quite familiar with the self preservation, and had assumed he was somewhat of an expert on the subject, but only now did he learn differently, as he was thrust into the position of the soon-to-be-slaughtered, gaining first hand experience and realizing just how limited his perceptions had been before. Now, being the animal, the cornered wolf, the pinned rabbit he realized: Animals didn't just _want_ to keep themselves alive, they _needed_ to. Beyond all personal attachments, there was some point when pure instinct overruled all else.

For Eragon, that time was nigh. No thoughts of any kind existed, not even of the most primitive. It was not that the rustling of birds in the leaves seemed insignificant. It wasn't as if Eragon's only concern was to escape the hissing strangers and the burning house. Because, '_What are birds? What are leaves?'_. And because Eragon had no concerns. He was not literate. He was not capable of doing anything. There was no desperate thought of escape, no _run!_, as expected as they were in the circumstance. No conscience. Nothing existed - not his ragged breathing nor his sizzling lungs. To say nothing was running through his head was genuinely wrong. Nothing - a noun, a thing, actively buzzing around within his skull - was not right. It wasn't that nothing was running through his head, it was that everything was not.

And while his mind was dead, his body was buzzing with energy. The force of all things that had occupied his head for fifteen years now surged through his limbs, merging together, flowing and convulsing and tempering into a solid palpable instinct. And amidst the vacuum and absence of all else, primal instinct, utterly wild like no other force of Alagësia, that ran through the blood of hunted deer in the moments before their deaths, existed. The passage of time, like everything else, was absent. But evidently, this state of hunted animal mode could only last… so long…? Several heartbeats? Several decades? The actual duration of time that elapsed was lost, but after, however long it was, something finally began to develop. Not considered a thought, but a colossal change from the vacuum of before, and something that _did_ fill Eragon's head.

Forged by the monotonous beat of the soles of his feet hitting the earth, a rhythm was created, for which no words could perfectly describe. In the beginning, it was merely the sound of his footfalls, but as time progressed, it evolved into something more, swelling and throbbing in an unearthly beat, a melody with no pitch, that went on even as the patter of his feet faded to the very back of his mind and eventually completely abated.

The beat became a guide, a steady, continuous thing that seemed like it would never change. While outside forces were unpredictable and frightening, the unmatched comfort of the rhythm was that it remained steady. At least, for the moment, which was all Eragon lived in.

The stone seemed to enjoy the melody's presence as well, humming deep and soft and emanating with apparent contentment. This caused no puzzle to Eragon, while his thoughts had begun to gradually return, they were as of yet still raw and undeveloped, having yet to strive to the immediate attention-demanding topics, one of which was why he was running blindly through the forest in the middle of the night. Simple things he could accept, ignoring the gaps in reasoning behind them. If the stone was happy, who was he to stop it? Whether a stone could or could not feel happiness under the standard rules he usually lived by was something still too complex to contradict present 'thoughts'.

Then at some revolutionary point the music abruptly stopped as awareness crashed down with full force upon Eragon. After this there were the questions. _Where am I? What happened to Uncle Garrow? What should I do? Who were those strangers? What are their motives? Why did they want this stone? What is this stone? Why do I have the stone? The stone, the stone, _**the stone!**Everything seemed to revolve around the one object. But why? A foot long gem, yes. Something that, had it found a buyer, could have fed his family for year, yes, and it would most certainly fetch a fine price in the Empire, yes. But, what it all boiled down to, was a stone! Even the strangers must have seen it was just a useless piece of jewelry, of no signif-. But there he stopped, because he realized this was not true, the stone that keened with a savage beat and could feel happy during it and disappointed when he put it down on his bed was anything but ordinary.

Eragon withdrew the gem from inside his singed tunic, running his fingers across it's all too familiar surface, regarding it with a newfound respect and caution that had not been demanded of him before, when he had seen it as only an object, where now it was a peer. His brow furrowed. This… thing was dangerous, that much he knew. He was tempted to hurl it away at that moment, but something stayed his hand. Too much had gone up in flames over the wretched thing, and he'd sacrificed to much to release it. For whatever reasons, those hissing _creatures_ wanted it, and that meant it was important. As horrible as they were, Eragon didn't think they would waste their time on something useless.

Although it made for more convenient carrying, Eragon withheld from putting the stone back under his tunic, where it felt closest. The stone could not be trusted. He attempted to asses the situation. First and foremost were the strangers themselves. They would be looking for him now, surely? He was only dubious because he hadn't been caught. They'd burned down his home and gods only knew what happened to - Garrow! How could he have left his Uncle behind? He could only imagine what they did with him - and he preferred not to. Looking at the whole thing, the stone, the creatures, his Uncle, the farm, and where he was now, he realized he couldn't judge any of them for one reason: he had no idea of how much time had elapsed since the razing - how long he'd been running, _where_ he'd been going, and maybe the most important, what to do next. Eragon didn't know where to start in the confused jumble. Should he go back to Carvahall? Was that even possible? He supposed he should start with the immediate situation first. Where was he now? The Spine, was the immediate answer his mind presented. That much was clear from the heavy scent of tree sap and the sinister tint of the air. In addition, there was no smell of coal from the hearths of Carvahall, and he could tell he must have been deep in the Spine - at least, deeper than he'd, or any sensible person, had ever been. If he were to go back, which direction should he take? The opposite way he was facing now? Had he been coming from that direct path since setting of from the farm? How long would it take him to get back to Carvahall? Were the strangers hunting him? Was it a good idea to go back at all? It would have all been so much easier to sort out if he had just been more aware when he'd been fleeing!

Eragon lashed out in frustration, hitting a nearby tree with the gem in his hand. His debates were momentarily forgotten at the sound of the dull thud of the stone hitting the tree. There was nothing remarkable about the noise, but something about it put him off a little, like he'd been expecting something else, although what he was not sure. Curious, despite himself, Eragon thrust the stone onto the hard, smooth bark of the tree once again, knowing well it wouldn't be harmed, and cocked his head, listening carefully. The sound seemed to be higher in pitch than he would have expected - _pitch_? The thud did not sound so dull and muffled any more. Eragon lifted the stone higher, examining it. One more unusual thing about it. It hummed too, so maybe this wasn't very strange.

Tucking the information away for later, Eragon's thoughts returned to his conundrum. He concluded he'd have to return, even if the strangers where hunting him there, nothing was in the Spine, aside from wild plants, animals, some of which were dangerous and… Eragon recalled the story of how King Galbatorix had lost half his army in the midst of the Spine. He wasn't sure if that was true, but suddenly he wished to be anywhere else.

Eragon tried to judge what time it was. Inhaling, he opened his senses in what he hoped was a vigilant manner. Information flooded in, bringing news of tree sap, pine needles, nothing of much help, although the balmy air led him to believe it wasn't morning yet. Pursing his lips, Eragon felt that no matter what time of the day it really was he'd need rest before traversing the journey back to Carvahall. Looking to find a more suitable place, Eragon took a step forward, and immediately various parts of his body protested. The soles of his bear feet must have been without the outer three layers of skin, and covered in a combination of sap, dust, and blood. He was aware of the sand-paper-like feel of the skin of his throat, as well as a searing pain puncturing his chest. Rest sounded good.

Knowing he was deep in the Spine, with a mysterious 'blue' stone and a pair of gruesome creatures hunting for him, he felt especially vulnerable, and almost set about heading for Carvahall right then, but he new his chances of persevering if he did so would't be too high. Resigned, Eragon ignored his body's protests and, wincing, tried to find somewhere to bunker down. He'd most likely only find a tree, but as long as he had something to put his back against and somewhere that felt, although realistically probably wasn't, more defendable, he'd be content enough.

Pressing up against a rotted log, Eragon let his mind wander. How would he get out of the Spine? He had no idea what direction Carvahall was in. No, that wasn't right - he had some, as he could assume it was most likely in the general direction he had come from. Still, he didn't truly think his path hadn't vary'd on the way here. For all he knew, he could have run in a complete circle and Carvahall was the same way he'd been going. Eragon racked his brain, searching for some shred of information he had somehow missed earlier that might provide an answer, although he knew it was useless. Everything seemed to happen days ago. The only thing that came to mind was the memory of a savage beat, although he couldn't recall any of the song's content, the remembrance of it was clear. For reasons unbeknownst to him, he thought of a deer, and the phrase "egg-breakers" came to mind.

It was pointless. Eragon 'saw' only clouded mockeries of what had really transpired, his mind unable to conjure accurate scents and sounds. Knowing it was hopeless, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

-x-

The first thing Eragon was aware of was a dry, patchy throat and a swollen tongue. Right then Eragon didn't care if he never found his way out of the Spine, water was his top priority. He attempted to get to his feet but ended up sprawled on the ground, the stone poking uncomfortably into his side. His muscles seemed especially stiff, which wasn't surprising, but they still held more tension than he would have expected. This, coupled with the fact that his tunic was crusted to his back with dried sweat and dirt, made hime realize he must have been 'resting' longer than he'd intended. After attempting to stand a second time, he succeeded, barely, and with the stone clutched under his left arm and his right clearing an aimless path, he searched for water.

Still, the effectiveness of this was drastically downplayed as he had no clue where he was. For all Eragon knew, the nearest water source might be miles away, or even from a well in Carvahall. He doubted it though, there had to be at least one measly brook breaking the forest floor. It wasn't a surprise when minutes later he was met with no success. Eragon needed a plan. He knew that. But it was just too difficult. He did not now how to proceed. Trying to stall any actual decision making, Eragon found a tree and thumped 'Blue' against it. He didn't notice anything odd about the sound this time, although he realized the bark of this particular tree was uneven, and had a vague memory the tree that had elicited the supposedly odd sound from the gem had been somewhat smoother. Eragon's parched throat made it hard to think, but he knew thinking about what to do next would be harder, so Eragon thumbed around, maybe searching for water, who knew? Scoring his hands over the forest floor of springy needles, vegetation, and pebbles, Eragon chanced on a rock a bit less rough than the rest, although feeling hopelessly gnarled compared to Blue. Although still avoiding the subject of decision, he now felt genuinely curious and lightly rapped Blue with the other stone.

A pure note suffused the air, puzzling Eragon to no end. This wasn't like the humming, a noise that a living thing consciously made, but a natural occurrence. Lifting it up, the thought ran through his head, _it couldn't be… _and it couldn't! The stone had always seemed heavy for its size, but that hadn't seemed horribly strange assuming the stone was a solid object.

"You're heavy, you hum, you act as magnet for inhumane _things_, and now you're hollow? You've been keeping secrets, haven't you, Blue?" Eragon was surprised at how rusty his voice sounded. He continued to look for water.

Eragon couldn't put it off any longer. There was no nearby water, and he _needed_ to do something. Eragon thought back, like he had before. It was slightly easier to reach past the song now and into memories of the house's burning, but it would have been easier were his thirst quenched. Eragon thought on everything he knew about Carvahall, in some hope to realize some hidden information, and tried to ignore his thirst, but only partially succeeded. He started with the simple facts first, so as not to skimp over anything.

_Carvahall is a small village. It is my home, as well as Horst's and Garrow's and Roran's. _Eragon avoided the fact that Garrow probably wasn't going to be living there any more, and that Roran had left. _Carvahall is part of the Empire. It…? _What? That seemed to sum up most of what he knew from living there his whole life. _There has to be something else!_ Desperate, he ignored Carvahall and examined every detail of the fire he could call to mind, without success. Eragon panicked. There _had _to be something he'd forgotten. But then he contemplated that one statement, alone, and knew it wasn't true. Why did there have to be something else? For his sake, yes, but who said fate had interest to keep him alive? Maybe it was just another assumption, and there was nothing else. Maybe he'd die of thirst, or the strangers would find him, put him to death and finally have their precious rock. Or, worst of all, maybe he'd find water soon. Maybe he'd find a way to survive in the forest and live the rest of his life there, always ignorant of what had really transpired, with only Blue for company.

Eragon shuddered and tried to calm himself. He was unwilling to believe there was nothing of use to him now. Surely, one couldn't sum up fifteen years in several minutes. He just had to go slower, to look more carefully. And so, Eragon proceeded to go agonizingly slow through every memory he could recall, starting from the few of infant hood, and going. There were gaps at seemingly random intervals, where his memories faltered, as he hadn't been too sharp as a five year old, and over fifteen years, he could not remember day to day.

_"No, _over_," Garrow stressed. Eragon's fingers felt slow and clumsy, still not understanding over and under, right and left. Lacing up his boots hadn't sounded this hard, but then Eragon realized all the strings that had to be strung for the overlarge shoes to stay on his feet. He heard his Farther sigh, and wondered if it had been hard for him to learn to lace his boots. It didn't seemed like it. Farther was big and strong and new everything about feeding cows and pulling carrots and lacing boots. It had probably been quite easy for him, like everything else was, for all grown-ups._

_ "Let me do it, Eragon," father offered._

_ "No! I'm big, I don't need help," a five-year old Eragon answered, appalled at the thought of having help from a grown-up, of not being able to do something in front of - _

_ "You're not big! You can't even tie your own boots!" Roran scoffed. _

_ As Eragon was about to argue, Mother said, "Hush, Roran. If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't speak." Eragon scowled, getting defended by a grown-up again._

_ "I _can _tie them!" and proceeded to convert his laces into a confused, gnarled 'knot'. Holding his chin up proudly, Eragon continued, "You see?"_

Eragon moved on to another memory of when Garrow, and later, Roran, had caught the ague, and he had, for a short period of time, done all three of their chores. It had been something of a turning point in his life, when he'd learned to do a lot of things he'd never done before because they could see and he couldn't. However, the trail of thought seemed unfruitful, which he wouldn't have noticed normally, as most of his memories proved such, but the memory of the boot lacing had struck a chord in him, and he realized why. _Over and under, right and left._ Directions. Exactly what he needed now. Encouraged, he went on.

_ Eragon, now eight, groaned. They were out late in the field, while they would usually have been enjoying dinner, since one of the two horses pulling the plow had twisted his leg; the work had taken twice as long with only the remaining horse, who was by now exhausted from the labor. Beads of sweat rolled down the back of Eragon's neck. Although they always sweat during their exertions, now even more than usual as the sun was setting over them when in the morning it was on the opposite side of the house. Eragon pondered this. Of course, the sun set, which was the difference between night and day. He'd never thought about the consistency of the sun only rising in the morning and setting in the eve. After their labors were over, and they sat to a late, cold dinner, Eragon asked something to this effect, mildly curious. _

_ Garrow grumbled, tired and fed up, but answered his nephew's question. "The sun rises over there, in the front, which is to the East, and sets in the West, over by the fields. Then North, on the right side of the house, and South on the left, behind me.."_

_ "But why?" Roran asked, the information news t -_

Could that be it? Eragon vaguely remembered something else, years later, a random tidbit that might have concerned 'North', but quickly discarded it as he already had enough information._"Over by the fields"_. The same fields Eragon had toiled over his whole life. The same fields they had run from the back door into, into the Spine. _West _into the Spine.

Eragon wanted to whoop. He knew a direction. He could go home! It was so simple. He'd run west into the Spine, he just had to head in the opposite direction - Eragon thought for a moment _"The sun rises over there in front which is to the East…" _- the East, that had to be it! Eragon was feeling pleased with himself, before his heart sunk to his feet. East, which was… where? Eragon searched frantically, not willing to despair. _That's easy! East is in the front of the house!… _The front of the house. Like that was going to help him now. He slumped, defeated. The feeling was horrible, his hopes being crushed before him. And worse, he knew it was his fault - his own stupidity that made him suppose in the first place that he knew how to leave the Spine. All the despair and hopelessness of before came shrouded his mind again. Because it didn't matter where East was if he didn't know. Because Eragon was lost.

With a heavy heart, he once again opened his ear for the gurgle of a stream that he knew he wouldn't hear.

-x-

Blue was being awfully annoying. It seemed to radiate amusement at Eragon's plight, although he could not fathom what in Alagaësia was so funny. Stones didn't get thirsty though - so what would he expect? It could sit there and relax without the presence of a raw throat and bleeding feet and the rankling of its accomplice ailing it ever-presently, but he unfortunately could not say the same. And Blue hummed. That was the worst. Humming in a carefree way as if it weren't lost in the middle of no where. And as if it wasn't in danger of being banged repeatedly on its surroundings until its flawless surface was diseased with potholes and abandoned in the same middle of no where. And Eragon was perfectly willing to do it, too. Why hadn't he done it yet? Did he really need this aggravation? Eragon thought Blue had better be careful.

He still searched for a water that would sate his thirst, but he was skeptical one existed. And that was why Blue wasn't already lying scratched and forgotten somewhere. Constant aggravation _was _what he needed, to keep his thoughts away from the despair, from the dark place in his head where there was no water, and no Garrow, either. Eragon hoped that world was but a fantasy.

The search eventually seemed to become familiar, and Eragon was unsure as to why - until he listened. To his footsteps, that had begun to sound a bit hauntingly like the rhythm. But he refused to go to that world, where he had dawdled in before, when he'd fled, because that's how he was here now, because he hadn't payed attention to where he'd been going. He simply could't afford to descend into complete unawareness again, to end up somewhere and be clueless as to how he got there. It would have been so blissful, though. To let the beat comfort him in an oblivion where nothing existed, thirst included. Eragon couldn't though. It took all his strength to resist, and he bore the thirst, so that maybe he'd see home again. He didn't believe it though.

The search was familiar to the Fleeing, but not identical. More prominent was Blue's presence and activity, as well as Eragon's own - and everything still existed. Eragon knew what birds and leaves were, although he certainly wasn't too concerned with them. But he could still faintly hear the beat in the recesses of his mind, imploring to take over. He refused it, but only for so long.

Time passed, as it tended to do. Eragon's thirst was stronger than ever, and he noted an emptiness in his stomach as well, but somehow, his mind wandered, and these problems somehow seemed… less substantial. Less overpowering, like things weren't so bad. Eragon hadn't noticed he had stopped until he realized he was crouched against a tree, Blue in his hands, as always.

"You wouldn't know a shortcut to Carvahall, would you Blue?" Eragon smirked. Blue remained impassive, although he still felt as if it was amused. Time continued, whether Eragon and Blue were ready or not, all though frankly it made no difference to Blue. There may have been sleep, there may not have been. Despite his earlier efforts, Eragon was beginning to care less. Awareness was slipping. Things still existed, surely, but not brightly, for if they had, Eragon would not have been sitting and babbling with Blue. He would have been doing something, anything. The beat and the vacuum had not completely taken over yet. But Eragon was losing the battle. And, more importantly, he didn't care. That fact in itself fought against him.

Eragon was aware of, however, the constant babbling. He sat mindlessly and rattled on to Blue, talking about what, he knew not. It was all in good fun, truly, but somewhere Blue stopped thinking so, apparently. As gone as he was, Eragon noted the difference. The annoying presence that had before been teasing and taunting, had been replaced with a sterner and almost desperate entity, and Eragon pouted.

_"What happened Blue, I thought you were in for a joke?"_

_ "There's no time, no time! We can't stay here!"_

_ "What are you talking about? We're fine, what's to worry about?"_

_ "We're dying! They're hunting us! I thought it was almost time, but now…"_

_"Snap out of it, Blue! What ever ails you can't be so horrible as you say -"_

_ "You're the one who needs to snap out of it! I'm telling you the time is coming, I'm growing cramped here! You're the one, but your mind is clouded. We're being hunted! I need out, it's not safe here!"_

Eragon couldn't fathom what had gotten in to Blue, it was ruining the fun.

_"Blue, stop! You're crazy! I -"_

_ "Stop! We need to leave, we need to find water, we need to find home immediately -"_

_ "Don not -"_

_ "ERAGON! Cease bickering! Find the water, NOW."_

He was shocked. His name hit him like a slap to the face, a bucket of ice water sliding over him, bringing everything rushing back. What was he doing her babbling like a madman? He was being hunted. He was lost in the Spine! He was dying of dehydration! Stumbling to his feet, he took of running, although Eragon wasn't in the best condition for it now. His searches before had been calm and collected, strolls through the forest, pauses at regular intervals to listen for a gurgling. That was before, and this now, when he was desperate. The farm boy careened through the forest, if the strangers were near, they couldn't not hear him. Maybe they'd capture him, take Blue, but Eragon's thoughts were not along these lines at the moment. He felt like a hunted deer again, but this time, he was not hunted by the living predators, but by the ways of nature. He almost preferred the former.

"It's just a little further! It's here somewhere!" Eragon whispered barreling around trees through the underbrush. He knew he'd be hopelessly lost be the end of this, East forgotten. "I know it's here!" - and he almost did. His senses could almost pick up the scent of the water, the rushing as it cascaded down it's path, but it wasn't there. Frantic, he ripped apart the forest, but his senses, which had before encouraged him, now taunted him. There probably was no water here, maybe Eragon was going insane. He knew it. The senses, the smells and sounds, jeered and laughed, much like Blue had earlier. Maybe it was Blue, laughing at his misfortune again.

Eragon still told himself it was there, but he had no hope. _It _has_ to be here, does it? _a little voice in his head sneered. _And why? You may try to convince yourself of this, but you're fooling no one. _The voice brought back all Eragon's earlier worries, rubbing them in his face as evidence he was insane and there was no point. Fate didn't care about keeping him alive, so there did not have to be water. And there wasn't. He still stampeded in hopeless circles, and ran full out. And eventually he stopped telling himself that it had to be there, because it wasn't, and both he and that little voice new it. It continued to mock him. _You keep running yet, you really believe it's there don't you? Waste yourself away, let the ground corrode your feet until you're but a skeleton - I don't care. _

_ "Eragon, stop! Don't listen to it, to… you…"_

A new voice joined the skirmish, one surprisingly encouraging, but it wasn't nearly as effective as the negative one had been. It told him to keep going, yet he was already despairing. It was probably goading him as well, telling him it was near only for him to get his hopes up and call him a fool. Eragon wouldn't let himself believe again. He thought. But one small part of him was willing to. Because the encourage voice used his name, and seemed as desperate as he was. It told him to keep going, and part of him tried.

_"You can find it! It's near, don't let them find you!"_

_ Stop kidding yourself. You and I are both aware that you've slipped. That you're as gone as the water. _

_ "NO. You convince yourself it isn't here, you lie to yourself, please, please find it! It's almost time…" _

And Eragon had reasons for not trusting the voice. It was so confusing, and vague, but the other was clear, the other read his thoughts. He knew he had slipped, and so did the voice. It was after all, his own senses kidding him. But he didn't know the other, how it knew him. He didn't know where Blue was, or what voice was which, or if he cared. The melody was taking over, the voices beginning to dim under it's growing beat, but even as Eragon was finished, as a stray root found his toe and he hit the ground and was floating into oblivion he was aware of one thing: _"Egg-breakers! Thieves! Murderers!"_


End file.
